JOHN  BURROUGHS 

In  Remembrance 


University  of  California  •  Berkeley 


JOHN  BURROUGHS 

In  Remembrance 


1  G.  C,   FI8HE 


John  Burroughs  in  The  Nest  at  Riverby 


SERVICES  AT  THE  NEST 

In  the  beginning  God  created  the  heavens  and  the 
earth.  And  the  earth  was  waste  and  void ;  and  darkness 
was  upon  the  face  of  the  deep:  and  the  Spirit  of  God 
moved  upon  the  face  of  the  waters.  And  God  said, 
Let  there  be  light:  and  there  was  light.  And  God  saw 
the  light,  that  it  was  good:  and  God  divided  the  light 
from  the  darkness.  And  God  called  the  light  Day,  and 
the  darkness  he  called  Night.  And  there  was  evening 
and  there  was  morning,  one  day.  *  *  ::  ;:  *  And  God 
saw  that  it  was  good.  And  God  said,  Let  us  make 
man  in  our  image,  after  our  likeness;  and  let  them 
have  dominion  over  the  fish  of  the  sea,  and  over  the 
birds  of  the  heavens,  and  over  the  cattle,  and  over  all 
the  earth,  and  over  every  creeping  thing  that  creepeth 
upon  the  earth.  And  God  created  man  in  his  own 
image,  in  the  image  of  God  created  he  him;  male  and 
female  created  he  them.  And  God  blessed  them.  *  *  * 

Genesis  I 


O  Lord,  our  Lord, 

How  excellent  is  thy  name  in  all  the  earth, 

Who  hast  set  thy  glory  upon  the  heavens! 

When  I  consider  thy  heavens,  the  work  of  thy  fingers, 

The  moon  and  the  stars,  which  thou  hast  ordained ; 

What  is  man  that  thou  art  mindful  of  him? 

And  the  son  of  man  that  thou  visitest  him? 

For  thou  hast  made  him  but  little  lower  than  God, 

And  crownest  him  with  glory  and  honor — Psalm  8:1,  3-5 

The  heavens  declare  the  glory  of  Grod; 

And  the  firmament  showeth  his  handiwork. 

Day  unto  day  uttereth  speech, 

And  night  unto  night  showeth  knowledge. 

There  is  no  speech  nor  language 

Where  their  voice  is  not  heard. 

Their  line  is  gone  out  through  all  the  earth, 

And  their  words  to  the  end  of  the  world. 

In  them  hath  he  set  a  tabernacle  for  the  sun, 

Which  is  as  a  bridegroom  coming  out  of  his  chamber, 

And  rejoiceth  as  a  strong  man  to  run  his  course. 

Psalm  19:1-5 


*  *  *  Be  not  anxious  for  your  life,  what  ye  shall  eat, 
or  what  ye  shall  drink ;  nor  yet  for  your  body,  what  ye 
shall  put  on.  Is  not  the  life  more  than  the  food,  and 
the  body  than  the  raiment?  Behold  the  birds  of  the 
heaven,  that  they  sow  not,  neither  do  they  reap,  nor  gather 
into  barns;  and  your  heavenly  Father  feedeth  them. 
Are  not  ye  of  much  more  value  than  they?***  But  if 
God  doth  so  clothe  the  grass  of  the  field,  which  today 
is,  and  tomorrow  is  cast  into  the  oven,  shall  he  not  much 
more  clothe  you,  O  ye  of  little  faith?  Be  not  therefore 
anxious,  saying,  What  shall  we  eat?  or  What  shall  we 
drink?  or,  Wherewithal  shall  we  be  clothed  *  *  *  for 
your  heavenly  Father  knoweth  ye  have  need  of  all  these 
things.  But  seek  ye  first  his  kingdom,  and  his  righteous- 
ness; and  all  these  things  shall  be  added  unto  you. 

Matt.  6:25-26;  30-33 


GOD  OF  OUR  FATHERS,  WE  THANK  THEE 

God  of  our  fathers,  God  of  our  children's  children, 

Thou  art  our  dwelling-place  in  all  generations. 

Along  the  highway  of  truth  our  journey's  end  is  ever  in 

Thy  heart. 
And  though  forever  go  we  forth  from  Thee  upon  daring 

quest,  and  the  far  adventures  of  life, 
Yet  alway  Thou  art  unto  us,  by  day  as  an  open  road,  as 

friendship  fires  at  eventide. 
Reveal  Thyself  unto  us  anew  in  this   hour  of   falling 

shadow — 

Nay,  rather,  this  hour  of  lifting  light — 
Until    that    which   seemeth    shadow,    shall    become    the 

portals  of  dawn! 

Upon  the  threshold  of  our  beloved's  translation  we  are 

mindful  of  the  multitude  of  witnesses  round  about. 
A  world  comes  with  us  to  pay  tribute  eagerly  at  a  shrine 

of  love. 
Little  children  are  here,  with  woods'   flowers  in  their 

hands; 
With  the  morning  upon  them  come  the  youth  of  the 

nation ; 


Men  and  women  come,  from  field  and  shop,  from  mart 
and  office,  from  home  and  school  and  church  and 
state; 

And  lo!  Help  us  to  listen — What  voices  these  out  of 
the  distances?  yesterday  and  tomorrow,  proclaim- 
ing tribute! 

And  Thy  voices  call  to  us  in  this  hour, 

Thy  Voice  as  the  voice  of  many  waters; 

Blue  of  the  bending  sky ;  Valley  of  the  River ; 

Fragrance  of  arbutus  flower,  opening  under  the  pine; 

Melodious  song  of  the  hillside  brook ; 

Swollen  torrent  roaring  down  its  glen. 

How  wondrous  are  Thy  works!     In  wisdom  hast  Thou 

made  them  all. 

Teach  us  to  appreciate  Thy  loving  kindness ; 
To  understand  Thy  benign  disposition  toward  Thy 

children ; 

To  know  that  the  world  is  good. 
As  when  on  yonder  heights,  among  the  unfading  balsams, 

our    spirits    thrilled    to    the    silver    bugles    of    the 

mountain  veery, 
So  with  Thy  still  small  Voice,  sound  through  our  souls 

and  awaken  gratitude! 
We  thank  Thee,   O   Great  Teacher!   for  our  teachers, 

Thy  living  prophets,  whom  Thou  hast  sent, — 
For  delicate  fingers  feeling  their  way  into  the  secrets  of 

life, 

For  keen  eyes  seeing  distinctly  and  unafraid, 
For  minds  pure  to  the  mastery  of  truth; 
For  brave  souls  hating  a  lie. 
And  above  all,   O   God  of  the  fireside  and  the  social 

community ! 

We  thank  Thee  for  neighbor  and  friend — Amen. 

FRANKLIN  D.  ELMER 


In  1915  Mr.  Burroughs  said  to  a  friend:  "When  the  time 
comes  that  I  go  back  to  Mother  Earth,  nothing  more  appropriate 
could  be  read  to  the  gathered  friends  than  these  lines:" 

Upon  this  changing  globe  which  blindly  moves 
Among  its  kindred  in  the  helpless  heavens, 
Behold  myself — a  finite  thing,  alive, 

Blood,  marrow,  brain,  they  are  but  higher  names 
For  common  dust,  which  restless  Circumstance 
Hath  brought  together  into  transient  form, 
Which  acts  upon  itself,  within  itself, 
Calling  its  action  Life,  or  Mind  or  Soul. 

Whence  came  I  ?    Ask  the  raincloud  whence  the  drop 
Which  rushes  down  with  millions  of  its  kind. 
I  know  not  save  that  somehow  in  the  slow 
And  aimless  fingers  of  that  Mother  All 
\Vhich,  deaf  and  blind  and  dumb,  forever  toils, 
I  did  appear.    And  whither  shall  I  go 
When  in  a  little  while  this  gathered  mass 
Which  is  the  Me,  shall  lose  its  lineaments 
And  sink  again  in  that  from  which,  at  first 
Its  outlines  woke  within  the  senseless  hands? 
Ask  Night    where   went   the   beam  that  danced    upon 
The  mountain's  shoulder  when  the  sun  was  low ! 
I  was  not;  I  became;  and  when  the  time 
Hath  ripened,  I  shall  but  return  again 
Into  that  Nothingness  which  is  the  All. 

About  me  is  the  earth,  beloved,  mine, 
The  parent,  the  companion,  and  the  friend; 
The  forest  nods  in  fellowship;  the  winds 
My  playmates  are;  the  waters  lisp  the  sign 
Of  brotherhood;  and  in  the  thunder's  voice 
I  hear  a  tongue  which  is  not  wholly  strange. 
The  stars  are  kindly  councillors  to  me ; 
I  claim  a  kinship  with  the  worm  that  crawls, 
And  with  the  clay  wherein  the  simple  tale 
Of  its  dim  life  is  written. 
When  sometimes 

The  knowledge  of  the  certainty  of  death 
Sits  heavily,  I  do  but  pause  and  weigh 
That  deeper  truth — I  do  not  need  to  care. 
My  pleasure  is  the  earth's,  my  pain  is  hers, 


For  we  are  one,  and  neither  time  nor  change 

Can  work  us  injury.    I  am  not  all, 

I  am  a  part  of  all,  and  whether  clothed 

With  flesh  and  feeling,  hurled  through  lava-heat 

Or  strewn  in  that  green  midnight,  miles  below 

The  ruthless  tempest  and  the  hungry  wave 

No  evil  shall  befall  me.     Neither  death, 

Nor  that  succession  of  eternities 

Which  is  to  follow  after,  can  destroy 

One  atom.     In  those  elemental  joys 

Which  thrill  through  all  the  worlds,  each  scattered  part 

Shall  reap  its  portion,  full  as  though  it  lay 

As  now,  in  that  defined  and  guarded  shape 

Which  is  mysef — myself,  so  closely  wrapped 

In  the  sweet  fiction  called  Identity — 

That  unto  which  these  finite  passions  cleave 

As  though  it  were  a  thing  and  not  a  thought. 

What  of  my  duty,  that  concerning  which 
My  brethren  have  so  much  perplexed  themselves 
And  shed  each  other's  blood?    It  is  but  this, 
That  I  be  mindful  of  the  joys  of  all 
And  vigilant  against  the  common  pain, 
For  what  my  brother  suffers  or  enjoys 
So,  too,  do  I,  although  I  know  it  not. 

Thus  do  I  see  and  know  myself,  a  mould 
Of  that  same  sentient  and  eternal  stuff 
Whereof  this  realm,  and  all  the  heavens  and  hells 
And  that  which  made,  and  makes  them,  is  composed. 
Loosed  from  the  rude  and  fretful  myths  of  gods, 
Sins,  purpose  in  creation,  permanence 
Of  self,  and  man's  superior  origin, 
I  go  my  way  among  the  rolling  spheres, 
Alive  and  glad,  and  also  unafraid. 

Weave  on,  Blind  Mother,  at  thine  awful  loom, 
With  chains  of  worlds  for  thread,  with  endless  time, 
As  needs  be,  for  the  fashioning  of  that 
Which  never  can  be  finished.    Toil  thou  on 
While  we,  thy  careless  little  ones,  rejoice 
In  that  which  thou  hast  done — the  wondrous  moon 
Above  the  hills,  the  gentle  winds  that  play 
Their  ancient  games  among  the  talking  leaves, 


The  sunshine  and  the  rain  upon  the  roofs 
That  shelter  those  we  love;  and  everything 
Within  us  that  is  either  great  or  good. 

EARL  W.  WILLIAMS 


A  POET'S  EPITAPH 

*  *  * 

But  who  is  He,  with  modest  looks, 
And  clad  in  homely  russet  brown? 

He  murmurs  near  the  running  brooks 
A  music  sweeter  than  their  own. 

He  is  retired  as  moontide  dew, 
Or  fountain  in  a  noon-day  grove ; 

And  you  must  love  him,  ere  to  you 
He  will  seem  worthy  of  your  love. 

The  outward  shows  of  sky  and  earth, 
Of  hill  and  valley,  he  has  viewed ; 

And  impulses  of  deeper  birth 
Have  come  to  him  in  solitude. 

In  common  things  that  round  us  lie 

Some  random  truths  he  can  impart, — 
The  harvest  of  a  quiet  eye 

That  broods  and  sleeps  on  his  own  heart. 

*  *  * 

WORDSWORTH 


THE  THRENODY 
*  *  * 

Wilt  thou  not  ope  thy  heart  to  know 

What  rainbows  teach,  and  sunsets  show? 

Verdict  which  accumulates 

From  lengthening  scroll  of  human  fates, 

Voice  of  earth  to  earth  returned, 

Prayers  of  saints  that  inly  burned, 

Saying,  What  is  excellent, 

As  God  lives,  is  permanent; 

Hearts  arc  dust,  hearts'  loves  remain; 

Heart's  love  will  meet  thee  again. 

EMERSON 


THE  GATES  OF  SILENCE 

The  races  rise  and  fall, 
The  nations  come  and  go, 

Time  tenderly  doth  cover  all 
With  violets  and  snow. 

The  mortal  tide  moves  on 
To  some  immortal  shore. 

Past  purple  peaks  of  dusk  and  da\»u 
Into  the  evermore. 

I  could  not  see  till  I  was  blind, 
Then  color,  music,  light, 

Came  floating  down  on  every  wind 
And   noonday   was  at  night. 

I  could  not  feel  till  I  was  dead ; 

Then  through  the  mold  and  wet 
A  rose  breathed  softly  overhead, 

I  heard  a  violet. 

One  by  one,  the  gods  we  know 

Weary  of  our  trust, 
One  by  one  the  prophets  go 

Dreaming  to  the  dust. 


All  the  cobweb  creeds  of  men 

Vanish  into  air, 
Leaving  nothing,  save  a  "When?" 

Nothing,  save  a  "Where?" 

From  the  dim  starry  track 
Never  a  man  comes  back; 
Of  future  weal  or  woe 
Never  a  man  doth  know. 

Nor  you,  nor  I,  nor  he, 
Can  solve  the  mystery ; 
Come,  let  us  boldly  press 
On  to  the  fathomless. 

All  the  tomes  of  all  the  tribes, 
All  the  songs  of  all  the  scribes, 
All  that  priests  and  prophets  say, 
What  is  it?  and  what  are  they? 

Fancies-  futile,  feeble,  vain, 
Idle  dream-drift  of  the  brain, — 
As  of  old  the  mystery 

Doth  encompass  you  and  me. 
*        #        #        * 

What  star-shod  paths  lead  up  to  God 
We  may  not  know,  we  may  not  see: 

The  highways  that  the  dead  have  trod 
Are  'curtained  close  with  mystery. 

But  if  this  goodly  earth  and  fair 

Be  token  of  infinite  grace, 
Ah,  who  can  dream  the  glories  rare 

In  store  for  man's  immortal  race! 

ROBERT  LOVEMAN 


10 


BAREST  THOU  NOW,  O  SOUL! 

Darest  thou  now,  O  soul, 

Walk  out  with  me  toward  the  unknown  region, 
Where  neither  ground  is  for  the  foot  nor  any  path  to 
follow  ? 

No  map  there,  nor  guide, 

Nor  voice  sounding,  nor  touch  of  human  hand, 
Nor  face  with  blooming  flesh,  nor  lips,  nor  eyes,  are  in 
that  land. 

I  know  it  not,  O  soul, 
Nor  dost  thou,  all  is  a  blank  before  us, 
All  waits  undream'd  of  in  that  region,  that  inaccessible 
land. 

Till  when  the  ties  loosen, 
All  but  the  ties  eternal,  Time  and  Space, 
Nor  darkness,  gravitation,  sense,  nor  any  bounds  bound- 
ing us. 

Then  we  burst  forth,  we  float, 
In  Time  and  Space,  O  soul,  prepared  for  them, 
Equal,  equipt  at  last  (O  joy!  O  fruit  of  all!)  them  to 
fulfill,  O   soul! 

WHITMAN 


11 


SELECTIONS    FROM   THE   EARLIEST   AND    LATEST 
WRITINGS   OF  JOHN   BURROUGHS 

WAITING 

Serene  I  fold  my  hands  and  wait, 
Nor  care  for  winds,  nor  tide,  nor  sea ; 

I  rave  no  more  'gainst  time  and  fate, 
For  lo!  my  own  shall  come  to  me. 

I  stay  my  haste,  I  make  delays ; 

For  what  avails  this  eager  pace? 
I  stand  amid  the  eternal  ways, 

And  what  is  mine  shall  know  my  face. 

Asleep,  awake,  by  night  or  day, 
The  friends  I  seek  are  seeking  me; 

No  wind  can  drive  my  bark  astray, 
Nor  change  the  tide  of  destiny. 

What  matter  if  I  stand  alone? 

I  wait  with  joy  the  coming  years; 
My  heart  shall  reap  where  it  hath  sown, 

And  garner  up  its  fruit  of  tears. 

The  waters  know  their  own,  and  draw 
The  brook  that  springs  in  yonder  heights ; 

So  flows  the  good  with  equal  law 
Unto  the  soul  of  pure  delights. 

The  stars  come  nightly  to  the  sky, 

The  tidal  wave  comes  to  the  sea; 
Nor  time,  nor  space,  nor  deep,  nor  high, 

Can  keep  my  own  away  from  me. 

JOHN  BURROUGHS 


12 


We  are  a  part  of  the  wave  of  energy  that  sweeps 
through  the  cosmos,  as  truly  as  the  drops  of  the  sea 
hold  and  convey  the  tidal  impulse.  We  know,  or  think 
we  know,  the  sources  of  this  tidal  impulse,  but  the  at- 
traction between  earth  and  moon  and  sun  is  reciprocal^— 
a  give-and-take  process — and  is  only  a  phase  of  the  sum 
total  (if  the  Inhnite  can  be  said  to  have  a  sum  total)  of 
the  energy  of  the  cosmos. 

The  magnet  and  magnetism  are  one.  If  you  melt  or 
pulverize  the  magnet,  you  dissipate,  but  do  not  destroy 
the  magnetism.  The  clouds  come  and  go;  now  we  see 
them,  and  then  there  is  only  blue  sky  where  they  were. 
Change,  but  not  destruction.  When  the  thunder-cloud 
disperses,  where  are  its  terrible  bolts  ?  Withdrawn,  prob- 
ably, or  redistributed  into  the  inmost  recesses  of  matter 
or  of  the  ether.  The  energy  of  the  human  brain  and 
body  cannot  be  destroyed  by  death,  only  changed.  If 

consciousness  is  a  force,  then  it,  too,  must  persist. 
#  #  #  * 

The  laws  of  life  and  death  are  as  they  should  be. 
The  laws  of  matter  and  force  are  as  they  should  be;  and 
if  death  ends  my  consciousness,  still  is  death  good.  I 
have  had  life  on  those  terms,  and  somewhere,  somehow, 
the  course  of  nature  is  justified.  I  shall  not  be  imprisoned 
in  that  grave  where  you  are  to  bury  my  body.  I  shall 
be  diffused  in  great  Nature,  in  the  soil,  in  the  air,  in  the 
sunshine,  in  the  hearts  of  those  who  love  me,  in  all  the 
living  and  flowing  currents  of  the  world,  though  I  may 
never  again  in  my  entirety  be  embodied  in  a  single  human 
being.  My  elements  and  my  forces  go  back  into  the 
original  sources  out  of  which  they  came,  and  these 
sources  are  perennial  in  this  vast,  wonderful,  divine 
cosmos.  (From  "Accepting  the  Universe "). 

JOHN  BURROUGHS 


13 


SERVICES  AT  THE  GRAVE 

The  Lord  is  my  shepherd;  I  shall  not  want. 

He  maketh  me  to  lie  down  in  green  pastures ; 

He  leadeth  me  beside  the  still  waters. 

He  restoreth  my  soul:    He  leadeth  me  in  the  paths  of 

righteousness  for  his  name's  sake. 
Yea,  though  I  walk  through  the  Valley  of  the  Shadow 

of  death 

I  will  fear  no  evil ;  for  thou  art  with  me ; 
Thy  rod  and  thy  staff,  they  comfort  me.  *  *  *  * 

Psalm  23 

For  ye  shall  go  out  with  joy,  and  be  led  forth  with 
peace ;  the  mountains  and  the  hills  shall  break  forth  before 
you  into  singing,  and  all  the  trees  of  the  field  shall 
clap  their  hands. 

Isaiah  55,  12. 


"GOD  OF  OUR  FATHERS,  WE  THANK  THEE" 
Read  as  at  previous  service 

SONG  OF  MYSELF 

*  *  * 

This  day  before  dawn  I  ascended  a  hill  and  look'd  at 

the  crowded  heaven, 
And  I  said  to  my  spirit  When  we  become  the  enfolders 

of  those  orbs,  and  the  pleasure  and  knowledge  of 

everything  in  them,  shall  we  be  fiWd  and  satisfied 

then? 
And  my  spirit  said  No,  we  but  level  that  lift  to  pass  and 

continue  beyond. 

*  *  *  *  * 

WHITMAN 


15 


THE  STILL  TREES 

I  thank  you,  Elm  and  Beech,  and  all  my  friends 

That  live  so  wisely  on  the  happy  hills, 

I  thank  you  for  your  silence.     Even  a  friend — 

Especially  a  friend — must  have  his  moods, 

His  long  still  days  of  dreaming  silence,  spent 

In  strange  communion  with  his  soul  and  God. 

And  you,  my  friends,  have  chosen  for  your  silence 

The  slow  lean  months  of  winter.    All  the  burdens 

And  all  the  joys  of  this  embattled  earth 

You  dare  forget,  so  that  your  soul  and  God 

May  have  their  hour  of  studious  solitude. 

So  I,  O  friends,  who  walk  among  you  now, 

Go  searching  inward  to  the  soul  in  me, 

And  bend  my  dreams  unto  the  God  we  know. 

I  thank  you,  Elm  and  Beech,  and  all  my  friends 

That  live  so  wisely  on  the  happy  hills. 

JOHN  RUSSELL  MCCARTHY 


YOUTH 

There's  a  spirit  bends  the  maple,  makes  it  beckon  like 

a  hand, 
Makes  it  murmur  in  a  language  that  my  heart  can 

understand ; 
They  will  sing  their  song  together — April's  spirit  and 

my  heart — 
Out   beyond    the   merry    foothills,    where    the    giant 

mountains  start. 

There's  a  yellow  on  the  highroad  that  is  gold  enough 

for  me, 
And  the  wine  of  April's  showers  is  as  clear  as  it  is 

free, 
See  it  sparkle   in;  the   sunshine?     And   beyond   the 

breathing  hills 
Lies  the  prize  of  hope  and  striving — youth  demands 

and  life  fulfills. 

JOHN  RUSSELL  MCCARTHY 


16 


TO  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

Thou  who  art  eyes  and  ears  for  all, 

And  loving  heart, 
What  loneliness  on  us  will  fall 

When  thou  depart. 

That  year  unheralded  the  spring 

Will  weeping  come, 
With  halting  footsteps  bring 

Why  thou  art  dumb. 

I  think  the  very  streams  will  know 

That  thou  art  gone, 
And  full  of  heavy  sorrow  flow 

More  slowly  on. 

A  hush  will  fall  upon  the  wood 

When  thou  dost  sleep, 
And  birds  bereft  their  lover,  brood 

In  silence  deep. 

And  though  thy  pinions  broader  sweep 

Than  eagle's  wing, 
Thou'lt  see  how  we,  too,  dumbly  weep 

And  cannot  sing. 

MAY  MORGAN 


17 


TO  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

(On  his  eighty-third  birthday,  April  3,  1920) 

When  you  were  born  on  that  April  day 

Up  on  the  hillside,  Roxbury  way, 

A  violet  peeped  from  the  springing  sod, 

A  robin  carolled  a  song  of  God; 

And  Nature  laughed — "What  a  wondrous  thing — 

Little  John  has  come,  so  it  must  be  spring !" 

The  flowers  and  song-birds,  Ah,  they  knew 

The  love  that  lay  in  the  heart  of  you ! 

So  they  helped  you  live,  and  they  watched  you  grow 

In  the  simple  way  of  long  ago, 

Blossoming  and  singing  near  you  at  play, 

They  companioned  the  boy  up  Roxbury  way. 

And  we,  your  friends,  who  have  loved  you  long. 

Envy  the  robin  his  birthday  song; 

Envy  the  violet  in  the  grass 

Springing  to  welcome  you  as  you  pass, 

So  take  the  song  and  the  violet  blue 

As  being  our  proxies  of  love  to  you, 

And  wherever  you  bide  in  the  coming  years 

We  will  call  to  you  when  the  spring  appears. 

JEAN  DWIGHT  FRANKLIN 


18 


JOHN  BURROUGHS  CALLED  BACK 

In  glorious  hour  the  great  soul  passed, 

And  he  will  find  his  own  at  last 

Ufcon  the  edge  of  April,  while 

The  earth  is  quickening,  mile  by  mile, 

His  young  soul,  thrilled  by  the  mysterious  breath 

Goes  singing  through  the  doors  of  death. 

He  who  was  comrade  to  the  herds, 
He  who  was  brother  to  the  birds, 
He  who  had  all  the  flowers  for  friends 
Has  gone  the  road  that  never  ends. 
Crowned  with  his  golden  lore  he  goes 
While  earth  is  dreaming  of  the  rose; 
And  as  he  passes  he  can  hear 
The  far  song  of  the  flowering  year. 

While  grasses  hurry  into  earth 
He  rises  to  his  higher  birth, 
Where  Audubon  and  Jefferies  are 
Exploring  nature  in  their  star- 
Where  Ruskin,  lover  of  old  roads, 
And  Turner,  have  their  bright  abodes, 
He  goes  and  round  his  head  is  hurled 
The  April  vision  of  the  world : 
He  carries  as  his  feet  depart, 
The  warm  love  of  the  whole  earth's  heart. 

EDWIN  MARK  HAM 


19 


JOHN  BURROUGHS 

Who  would  not  envy  him  the  years 
As  he  has  turned  them  page  by  page 

Of  Nature's  wonder-book?    Who  fears 
To  climb  with  him  the  Hills  of  Age? 

When  he  has  found  their  summits  yield 
But  wider  views  of  all  things  good — 

More  of  the  beauty  of  the  field, 
More  of  the  magic  of  the  wood? 

The  wheeling  sun,  the  wakening  earth. 

Nest-time  and  seed-time  in  his  mind 
Gained  fairer  meaning,  higher  worth, 

He  taught  new  vision  to  the  blind. 

Glad  hearing  to  the  silent  ears 

Till  in  the  meadows  every  spring, 

They  sense  the  music  of  the  spheres 
When  bobolinks  begin  to  sing. 

I  think  where'er  he  rests  the  place 
Will  be  the  robin's  safe  retreat; 

The  winter  snow  will  bear  the  trace 
Of  small  four-footed  pilgrims'  feet. 

Surely  these  hills  of  his  will  know 
And  not  forget  who  gave  them  voice; 

The  field  and  roadside  flowers  will  grow 
Close  to  the  Lodge,  and  birds  rejoice 

To  nest  above  his  door,  or  where — 
A  bearded  birch  tree  on  the  rocks, 

Wind-blown —  he  scans  the  Delaware, 
And  marks  the  turning  equinox. 

Thus,  then,  we  see  him —  staunch  with  age, 
Young  as  the  year's  eternal  spring — 

The  Seer,  the  Poet,  and  the  Sage 
Discerning  good  in  everything. 


20 


Watching  the  quiet  tide  of  days 
Untroubled  by  its  slow  decrease, 

He  stands  amid  the  Eternal  Ways 
Secure  that  all  leads  on  to  peace. 

Content  to  wait  with  quiet  hands 
Until  his  own  shall  come —  for  he 

Sees  through  the  veil,  and  understands  ; 
And  seeing,  teaches  us  to  see ! 

CHARLES  BUXTON  GOING 


NOW  I  LAY  ME  DOWN  TO  SLEEP 

Now  I  lay  me  down  to  sleep 
By  the  rock  where  1  shall  keep 
My  tryst  with  Mother  Earth. 

Shed  not  for  me  a  single  tear, 
But  gladly  leave  my  body  here 
To  find  its  second  birth. 

Seek  me  in  each  living  thing. 
Hear  my  voice  with  birds  of  spring, 
And  in  the  singing  brook. 

Dear  ones  who  have  come  today, 
My  life's  love  shall  with  you  stay 
Through  the  coming  years. 

Be  ye  real  and  be  ye  true, 
Do  the  work  that  comes  to  you 
Joyously  and  well. 

Leave  me  now  and  let  me  lie — 
To  live  again  I  had  to  die: 
Let  Nature  have  her  way. 

GRACE  DAVIS  VANAMEE 


21 


REQUIEM 

Under  the  wide  and  starry  sky, 
Dig  the  grave  and  let  me  lie. 
Glad  did  1  live  and  gladly  die, 

And  I  laid  me  down  with  a  will. 

This  be  the  verse  you  grave  for  me : 
Here  he  lies  where  he  longed  to  be, 
Home  is  the  sailor,  home  from  the  sea, 
And  the  hunter  home  from  the  hill. 

ROBERT   Louis    STEVENSON 


AT  CLOSE  OF  DAY 

Guarding  rock  and  brooding  sky, 
Hill  whereon  the  red  kine  lie, 
Welcome  to  earth's  vernal  breast 
Him  who  cometh  here  to  rest. 

Songs  of  northward-winging  birds 
Be  this  hour's  most  fitting  words ; 
Mounting  sun  and  spreading  light, 
Symbol  thou  this  spirit's  flight. 

Earth,  sweet  mother  of  our  race, 
In  thy  warm  heart  make  his  place; 
He  who  trod  thy  starry  way 
Cometh  home  at  close  of  day. 

FRANK  TALBOT 


22 


THE  SOUL'S  RETURN 

There  is  one  spot  for  which  my  soul  will  yearn, 

May  it  but  come  where  breeze  and  sunlight  play, 
And  leaves  are  glad ;  from  the  dark  realm  return ; 

A  waif — a  presence  borne  on  kindly  ray — 
Even  thus,  if  but  beneath  the  same  blue  sky ! 

The  grazing  kine  not  then  will  see  me  cross 
The  pasture  slope;  the  swallows  will  not  shy, 

Nor  brooding  thrush;  blithe  bees  the  flowers  will 

toss: 
Not  the  faint  thistle-down  my  breath  may  charm. 

Ah,  me!    But  I  shall  find  the  dear  ways  old, 
If  I  have  leave;  that  sheltered  valley  farm; 

Its  climbing  woods,  its  spring,  the  meadow's  gold : 
The  creek-path,  dearest  to  my  boyhood's  feet — 

Oh,  God !  is  there  another  world  so  sweet  ? 

MYRON  B.  BENTON 


23 


Services  were  held  at  The  Nest  at  Riverby, 
West  Park-on-thc~Hudson,  April  2,  1921,  the 
Reverend  Franklin  D.  Elmer  and  other  friends 
reading  the  selections.  "Remembrance"  (Pin- 
suiti)  and  'The  Cradle  Song"  (Brahms) 
opened  and  closed  the  services. 

On  the  following  day,  the  anniversary  of 
the  eighty-fourth  birthday,  services  were  held 
at  the  grave  by  the  Boyhood  Rock  near 
Woodchuck  Lodge,  at  Roxbury-in-the-Cats~ 
kills.  The  music  of  the  preceding  day  was 
repeated. 


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